


The Death Of Me

by iXombeh



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Angst, Bondage, Discipline, M/M, Prostitution, i'll think of more tags later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:30:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iXombeh/pseuds/iXombeh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's never a good night in this place. It's usually always the same. The people may seem different on the outside, but deep down they're the same disgusting monsters, like it's embedded in their bones. My routine: think about it, get fucked, think about it, get paid, think about it, wash up, think about it, get fucked. I'm just as vile as the people I'm with. I'm no good. I'm no angel. I'm just a normal, awful, person.</p><p> </p><p>STATUS: Hiatus. (Might be dropped)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Death Of Me

It’s the same thing every day, and it’s the same thing every night, but it’s not always the same person. Sometimes it’s a woman looking for a distorted version of “love” for one night, or maybe other times it’s a man looking for something better than his “used up” wife. They come to this vulgar, god-forsaken part of the city where drugs and whores are aplenty. They offer up money to my friends or I and we take them into a secluded room to show them a “good time”.

I can't remember anything beyond four years ago. I have dreams which show little snip-its from my past, but it's all fuzzy again after I wake up (though it's not like the dreams are very detailed to begin with). I know I had parents, but I can't remember who they are or what they look like. I know I had a couple friends at least, but I can't picture them either. I don't know what school was like, or if I even finished it. I don't know if I went to collage, or had a job, or a girlfriend, or a wife and kids, or a house, or a dog. I don't know my name, or when I was born. I don't know what kind of person I use to be; was I different, or the same as now?

Somehow I come to learn of the “misfortunes” and life stories of customers while they hold me close to their vile bodies as they spill their tears and painful memories all over me. I never listen to them. Why should I? I’m paid to have sex with, not to listen to some stranger sob into the sheets or pillow after a quick fuck. I don't even have my own memories, so why would I want to have a collection of others? I stare at the white dim-lit ceiling, walls or practically carpeted floor and ignore them. 

I’ve spent so much time looking at these things that I could tell you what scratches, cracks, dents, and scuffs are there, and how most of them got there. All the rooms have the theme color of red. It’s such a lustful and sinful color. There are no bright lights, which to me is very fitting. I always think about how maybe it’s dark enough for you to hide your shame in the swarthy corners of this broken down motel. There’s a large bed in each room, fitted with black or red sheets and a metal headboard painted gold with the demeanor of prison bars; I feel my wrists tingle when I think back to the times I’ve been handcuffed to it. You always know when a customer is in, the springs in the beds creak loudly even under the most diminutive movements. There aren’t any windows in any of the rooms in order to maintain privacy and the doors have locks which require a card for entry. In every single room right beside the bed, a small black dresser sits with a box of condoms and a bottle of lubrication on the top, and in a small compartment, right under the surface of the table, is a black handgun. The gun is meant strictly for self defense in the case that a customer is out of line. I crack a smile at that sometimes… an acrimonious smile. We are told that if someone is “out of line” we have the right to shoot them. If they are “disrespecting” us we can kill them. I had never thought about what any of that meant before.

We are disrespecting ourselves. We are giving our bodies up to people we do not even know on an acquaintance level. We are just like going to a fast food restaurant; you pay, you take, and you leave. We are the ones who are “out of line”. The people using us have problems just like we do. I never thought about that… not until I used the gun three years ago for the first time… not until I had taken the life of a man I thought was “out of line”. We have the right to kill people like that, so why don’t we just kill ourselves and save the trouble?

 

“…ey.” A voice calls to me. My mind tries to swim back up to the surface of reality and my eyes start to focus on someone standing in front of me. I begin to recognize the gentle face looking back at me. Multiple voices rise from all around me, just casual chatter from the others who work here. The dark red walls, the black furniture and the puffs of smoke from the mouths of smokers in the large sitting area come into view. 

“Hey, Bertolt,” my throat is dry as I speak, making my voice sound raspy and sickly.

“Were you thinking about it again?” he asks me with genuine worry. He takes a seat next to me on the black sofa in the corner of the lobby. “You looked like you were somewhere else for a while.”

“I suppose I was.” I run my hand through my hair, which has grown out quite a bit since I've been here, and exhale heavily. I want these awful thoughts to go away. I want them to just disappear. I want them to stop tormenting me...

“Want to talk about it?” Bertolt rubs my back. He’s my only close friend, and I trust him more than I trust myself. “You know I’ve got the time.”

I give him a slight smile and I take a deep breath. I can talk to him about anything. He has never judged me for my thoughts which are occupied by self-manifested demons. I don't even say one word. A voice sounds around us. It feels as though my stomach drops as I hear my number announced.

“Seven.” 

The other people are still conversing with one another; no one ever cares when someone is announced anymore. Bertolt shoots me a sympathetic look and I smile weakly at him, all my strength feels as though it has evaporated.

“But I don’t,” I reply as fatigued sets in. I get up and walk to the front desk to see who requested me. I pull back the heavy black curtain that divides the lobby from the front desk. I look to see Ymir sitting at the desk talking with a tall man with short blond well-kept hair and his posture makes him seem like a proud man. His black suit and shiny black shoes give off the impression he's rich and successful. I might get paid well. He's bound to have a bulky wallet full of money to throw away for a whore.

He speaks and his deep voice seems strangely familiar to me, it sends a slight shiver down my spine. He turns to face me and looks me up and down as if he were trying to figure something out. A few seconds later he smiles and walks slowly toward me, holding his head up high. His posture is so different from any other person who has ever come here. Straight back, not slouching. Calm and collected expression, not nervous and continuously looking behind him. Looking me in the eye, not avoiding eye contact and hanging his head. Confident steps, not shuffling his feet across the floor. He stops a little in front of me and just stares.

“Let's go,” I whisper in the lewd voice I used when dealing with customers. I grab his silky black tie and tug lightly. “Just follow me, sir.” I turn around and walk through the curtain back into the smoggy lobby. I scan the room quickly as we walk threw it making sure I don't appear to be looking for something, and silently hoping that maybe I can catch a sympathetic look from Bertolt. He's sitting in the same spot and he slowly waves to me. I nod my head just a bit.

I walk the tall man down the hallway and stop in front of my room. I grab the entry card from my pocket and stick it into the slot to unlock the door. I push the metal door open slowly and gesture for the man to follow. He walks slowly to the bed, sits on it and leans against the metal bars that make up the headboard. I straddle him and kiss along his jaw while loosing his tie and pulling the collar of his shirt down to expose his neck. Lick. Suck. Bite.

“Is bondage something you're into, sir?” I ask him pulling at his tie and pressing myself up against him.

A smile finds its way onto his poker-faced expression, his eyes almost seem to sparkle. His hands, which had been at his sides, grab my knees roughly and his grip slides up the inner part of my thighs. He leans his face close to mine. Something about the way he's looking at me reminds me of something, and it makes me a little nervous.

“I thought you would never ask,” he says. “Do you have anything for such an activity specifically, or should I just use my belt?” He grabs one of my hands and holds it against his thin gold painted belt buckle. I pull away from him, climb off the bed, walk toward the closet and throw open the old, worn, wooden doors. The man's mood obviously goes up several notches as he too jumps off the bed and strides over. The smile on his face is almost surreal as he eyes the plethora of objects hanging up.

A metal horse bit, a rubber ball gag, spider ring gag, several steel cock rings some with teeth lining the inner part, shackles, handcuffs, leather restraints, a spreader bar, floggers, paddles, crops, whips, ropes, collars with one to four rings, leashes, blindfolds, and multiple insertable objects.

The man lets out a long whistle. He stands behind me and places his hands on my waist while resting his chin on my shoulder. I just stand awkwardly. No one has ever stood and just stared at all this stuff for this long. I cough to break the silence.

“So... What do you want to use?” I no longer speak with a lustful tone, but a nervous one instead.

“Mmm... What do you like best?” 

“I... well... it doesn't matter.” I can feel the heat rising to my head from the embarrassment. He's a customer... he's... customers don't ask that sort of thing... they're here for themselves, not for me. So what I like shouldn't matter right?

“I guess I'll just have to guess then, right?” He moves away from me and starts grabbing things from the hooks. Leather arm binders. Metal horse bit. Blindfold. A worn leather collar with a metal chain link leash. Spreader bar. I'm actually surprised. Usually people go for one or two things.

He turns to face me with a malicious smile stretching across his face. Holding the stuff in one arm he uses his free hand and drags me over to the bed pushing me down hard. He tosses the objects to the side and quickly pulls off my long sleeve fishnet shirt and the black tank top underneath it. He grabs the blindfold and ties it securely over my eyes. I'm thrown into darkness with only sound and touch to tell me what's happening. For a while there is nothing and I hear slight scraping sounds. Now I can feel something cold tracing down my abdomen and I shiver.

“Goodness... you're getting hard.” He grabs hold of both my wrists. “So you're still into this. That's good to know.” 

I almost miss that. Still? Wait... this man knows me? I shake my head violently to try and fling the blindfold off, of course it's not working... I feel a fear growing. It crashes into everything inside me and I shake slightly. My breath is caught in my throat and I feel like I’m going to pass out. Images surface from some dark place in my mind; they're not thoughts, they're memories. Painful memories. Horrifying memories. He's from my past... but why am I afraid of him? What did he do to me? 

I kick him away with my feet and I hear a loud thump a curse following. With my freed hands I tug the blindfold off and watch as he rises slowly to his feet. I'm scared... it's such a childish feeling, but I remember it. When exactly was the last time I felt like this? He smiles at me and it's so familiar... I see a glint of malicious intent shimmering in his eyes that I recall from somewhere... There's nothing friendly about him. I know him... but who is he exactly?

I can hear my heart beating rapidly as the blood pulses violently in my ears. I stand up quickly and make my way around the bed toward the small black table. I’m scared. I'm furious. I want to cry, but I want to scream. I'd like to think that the shock would send me crashing to the floor. I want my brain to shut down so I can drift away into darkness for eternity where I can't feel anything. That's not going to happen though. I'm going to stay awake. I know I am.

Come on just grab the gun.

But he's not doing anything wrong.

No, he is, just get the gun.

I reach into the small compartment... it's empty. Where's the gun? Oh... he couldn't have.

“Are you missing this?” He pulls out a small black gun from the waistband of his slacks. “I grabbed it while you were blind. I didn't want you to get carried away if something were to happen. I made a good call.”

I try to swallow. It's incredibly difficult. It's painful. My eyes can hardly focus, but I notice that he's talking to me. I can't hear a word though due to the resonant sounds taking place in my head. He's taking steps toward me. I can't move my legs to back away. He closes the space between us. One of his hands rest on my waist while the other brushes the hair out of my face. He's still smiling, but it's not comforting. I can hardly breath, but I manage to inhale the tiniest bit, and I finally say his name; though I'm sure it was barely louder than a whisper.

“...Erwin?”

He speaks in the same voice he used back then. The kind of voice you would expect a killer to have while trying to lure their victim or while they slowly cut the skin of the unlucky person to have caught their eye; almost gentle and soothing but dark and terrifying at the same time.

“So this is where you've been hiding?” he leans in close, his breath hot on my neck. “But I should have guessed. You can't live without a fuck buddy, isn't that right? You look different, I almost didn't recognize you. But I don't know any other soul who has as many goddamn freckles as you do. Inside, you're still the same garbage I took in six years ago. I've missed you, Marco.”

**Author's Note:**

> My steps to posting a fanfiction.  
> 1)Nope  
> 2)Nope  
> 3)Nope  
> You humans have my word that future chapters will be longer.  
> This is just to see if my story telling is worthy.  
> There are so many good writers here -drools all over shirt-


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